


A Strange New Musing

by Areiton



Series: A Mix of Cockles [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Friendship, On Set, Supernatural Convention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:36:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6557590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem isn’t Misha. The problem is that Misha means change.<br/>And Jensen? Hates change.<br/>But some people are like a force of nature.<br/>And change is the same damn way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Strange New Musing

I don't like change. It's not so much that I don't like it as--new makes me nervous. Maybe because I'm shy. Maybe because I care too much, about what we're doing here. Maybe because I'm a fucking head case.  
With Jared, I couldn't live in my head. He was too damn energetic, a fucking puppy bouncing around makeup and set and then my trailer. With him, there was no resisting and it's what made us work.  
What made the show work.  
But.  
I don't like change.  
Maybe it's that I went into it with a shit attitude. The first day of filming, on a cold set, Jim being the cool professional bastard that he always is, and then.  
In he walks.  
Even though I knew it was coming, this new character--it dug at me. Bothered me for a reason that pushed at my skin. I shoved all that unease into Dean, channeled it into the scene. Easy enough. Dean was almost as freaked out by this blue eyed bastard as I was.  
And I told myself.  
Three episodes.  
I didn't have to like him. I just had to do my job and he'd be gone in three episodes.

Jared asked about him. _What's the deal with the new guy._  
We were walking back to our trailers after wrapping a scene and I was tired, distracted. Jared was still wearing fake blood and smelled like Gen’s perfume.  
He was changing the subject and trying not to blush when I asked about new Ruby.  
Little Jared was growing up real quick. Pretty soon he'd want his own place and everything.  
“He's really intense.” I say, “he just….”  
Something pricks at me, the feeling of being watched and my gaze flicks around. I flush. “He's watching us,” I hiss.  
And Jared, like the big overgrown child he is, jerks his head up, his gaze crashing into Misha’s. Arctic blue and staring. Like he isn't just playing an angel of the Lord but actually is and can hear us from across the lot.  
I yank on Jared’s arm and we scoot past him, and Jared is laughing and nervous. “Dude, that's fucking creepy.”  
I nod and give him a smile, and we're fine, joking and talking, exhaustion tugging at me.  
And I push the feeling of being a dick down, where it won't bother me as those damn blue eyes chase us away.

  
Then. He gets an extension. And what the hell. He's been kind of floating on the fringe of the show, but they keep shoving our characters together and it's harder to ignore him.  
Impossible.  
And there's this.  
He's intriguing.  
Jared is a bouncy puppy, and distracted by Gen, and Jim is, at best, gruff and reserved. Misha is….not quite Jared. And not quite Jim. He's some kind of middle ground, swinging between Jared - worthy antics and old soul wisdom.  
Without really realizing it, I start watching him. Taking in his tics and tells.  
He scribbles in a notebook while the girls work on his makeup.  
The crazy spike of his hair is not a style they chose--it's all his hair will do.  
He works constantly.  
There are tiny crinkles around his eyes when he laughs.  
He has a sense of humor that is dirty and sly and begs you to laugh, even when the joke is on you.  
He has the patience of a fucking saint and the spirit of a mystic and the dry sense of humor that tempers my own.  
When he and Jared get going, they can't stop. It's pissed off the crew more than a few times, as they push us to finish a scene and these two overgrown children fall to pieces. Inevitably yank me down with them.  
He cares. Intensely. With the kind of bone deep ache that makes me vaguely ashamed.  
I see it, really, for the first time at his first con. We've been doing them for a while now, and it's nothing new. Answer the questions, dance around saying anything that means anything. Sign the merch, smile for the camera, pass out in the quiet of my hotel room with Jared (if Gen isn't with us and she is, these days) and a bottle of Jose.  
Except.  
Misha didn't get that memo. I heard about it--Creation staff was pissed. His panel ran over. He kept talking to fans instead signing and moving along. Same when it came to photo ops.  
Then I started hearing about it from fans. Snatches of conversation.  
_He stopped the line and listened to me. He was almost crying. Made me promise to be back, next year._  
And  
_Look! He wrote a joke on my picture about fucking my boyfriend!_  
And  
_Did you hear he was rocking a crying baby during a photo op?_  
That one wasn't even his damn promo--it was some random chick waiting on Jared who was panicked about her screaming kid. Then he walked away and the poor woman chased him down, all starry eyes and shit while Misha rattled on about kids.  
That's when I realized how much he loved kids.  
When he showed up at the group photo op, he looked a little harried and bright eyed and was grinning so damn big it had to hurt. There wasn't any of the tired slump that clung to me and Jared. It's like he was thriving on this.  
And as we worked through the line, smile snap smile snap, I realized--he did. He cared.  
He talked to them, and not just the surface, _you having a good time, thanks for coming_ bullshit that was my go-to.  
I'm halfway through the Jose and it doesn't make any more sense than it did this afternoon and part of me wants to find him and demand to know what the hell he's doing and part of me says nope nope nope, bad idea.  
The rapid fire rhythm on my door feels inevitable. For about five seconds, I convince myself it's Jared (and Gen) before I pull it open and Misha spills inside, giggling like a fucking kid, all messy spiked hair and ancient blue eyes and question marks that make me wonder.  
“Fuck, Jensen,” he laughs. “Fangirls are fucking crazy.”  
He comes bearing gifts, an almost full bottle of vodka, and even knowing it’s a bad idea to mix the vodka with Jose and Misha’s strange enigma, I can’t shove him out.  
He’s right.  
Fangirls are fucking crazy.  
So we hide in my room and watch some nature documentary that I’m too lazy to flip away from and he makes every dirty joke he can, all in that flat, almost clinical voice that he uses for Cas, but his eyes are laughing while I am.  
He matches me shot for shot and lays across his stomach on my king size bed, his feet kicking almost childishly in the air as he taunts and teases. And when it’s over and I’m well and truly drunk, slouched on the floor at the foot of the bed, I ask the question that’s been bugging me all fucking day.  
“Why do you care so much?”  
He doesn’t pretend to be confused. He knows exactly what I mean. Instead he slithers off the bed and props against me, our shoulders brushing as he pours another shot for both of us.  
“Because they do. It’s hard to not care about them too. Don’t you see how much they love us?”  
Us.  
_No._  
“They love the characters,” I correct him, almost annoyed.  
“No.” He says slowly, drawing the word out. “I mean, that too. But. They care about you, Jensen. They care about your friendship with Jared. Do you have any idea how many times I was asked if you had played any pranks on me?”  
He gives me an arch look, “I’m almost offended that I had to say no.”  
I give him a flat glare and he laughs.  
“Why don’t you?” he asks instead.  
And that stings a little.  
A lot.  
Ok, a lot.  
“I do,” I answer, slowly.  
“But?”  
But I don’t like _this_. The fangirls. The photos. The endless line of signatures. All of it, so much attention and pressure and--  
“Holy fuck, Jay, are you _shy_?”  
I blush and look down. And Misha laughs. A sharp disbelieving noise.  
“Makes sense now,” he mutters and I look up.  
“What?”  
“Why you always are a little distant with me. You watch a lot, but you don’t talk to me much, Jay.”  
I want to squirm and he grins, wagging the bottle of vodka at me.  
Somewhere in the past few minutes, we’ve lost the shotglasses, and we’re now drinking straight from the bottle.  
“I’m glad to finally figure _that_ out.” he says, and I want to press because I’m curious about that note in his voice. The one that sounds like relief and satisfaction.  
I’m too drunk, tonight, to chase down that particular thought. But it feels safe, now. Not quite as tense, not quite as--Misha.

I don’t like change. It bothers me, and I know it’s because I spend too much time in my head.  
But.  
Sometimes, change isn't so bad.  
And the next day, when we’re getting ready for a panel before the con closes, and Misha presses coffee into my hand and smirks, before pushing past and onto the stage, ignoring Jared’s startled, big eyed questions, I just shrug.  
Sip the coffee, and cover my cough.  
Blue eyed bastard laced it with a little hair of the dog. I push my grin into the real smile, and bounce out on stage as they announce us.  
Misha might be the new guy. But I think I’m gonna like having him around.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Disclaimer:   
> I do not own the people. I do own this story.   
> You can find me on tumblr (areiton.tumblr.com) or at ForeverFangirl.com


End file.
